


Half-Step

by Agent_24



Category: RWBY
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long, Ruby Rose - Freeform, atlas ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: There are a lot of ways Qrow might want to spend his evening. Dolled up and alone during the Atlas Ball isn't one of them.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 41
Kudos: 437





	Half-Step

**Author's Note:**

> It's pretty clear at this point that Vol. 7 isn't going to let me have Qrow in a suit 😔 so we're going to substitute it with this instead. Enjoy~

Qrow does his best to make it blatantly obvious that he would rather be anywhere but here.

It seems to work for the most part; he gets a few glances, which he’d like to attribute to his looks rather than the fact that he’s been playing wallflower the whole time, but no one approaches to try to talk to him. He suspects part of the reason is that _Qrow Branwen_ has a bit of a reputation, and part of it is that he’s wearing a terrible and carefully placed scowl.

He would rather be on patrol. He would rather be flying high above Mantle’s rainy clouds and Atlas’ equally elevated egos. He would rather not be dressed to the nines in a sleek black suit, would rather be wearing his own cloak instead of this new one that looks like it’s made of silk that cost more than he’s ever made in his life, would _prefer_ to be back out in the countryside where it’s _quiet._

But Jimmy... _James_ had very nicely asked him to go for the sake of cameras, for the sake of appearing to have united forces protecting the city, although Qrow is pretty certain it’s really because there are a lot of council people and rich sponsors here that James hadn’t wanted to face alone.

Joke’s on him, Qrow thinks, because he’s not leaving this wall for anything. James could’ve saved some Lien skipping out on Qrow when he bought the displaced Beacon teams clothes for the evening.

He’s somewhat bitterly refusing to admit to himself that he would’ve ended up here anyway, considering Ruby and Yang would’ve hogtied him if it meant getting him to socialize. 

Better that Qrow plays wallflower anyway. Last thing he needs is to make some poor soldier spill their punch tripping over nothing. Qrow nurses his own slowly — too sweet, if you ask him, but better this than the bar set up across the room, which Qrow has desperately avoided even looking at. The problem with housing students and soldiers in the same place is that the soldiers outnumber the students by far, and most of the time are above drinking age.

His nieces are enjoying themselves, at least. Yang, in her sharp suit, has managed against little odds to pull Blake into a dance, and Ruby’s dressed up in a pretty, frilly dress with a swinging skirt that flutters when she spins, still clumsy on heels and surrounded by friends.

Qrow sticks a hand in his pocket and taps a finger against his punch glass to the rhythm of too-loud music, happy to keep to the edges of the party. Alone. As always.

“You clean up nice.”

Well. That ends his self-imposed solitude, he supposes. Qrow glances up with a huff of breath meant to brush bangs back, but those are gelled in place atop his head, so the gesture probably comes off as a little rude. Still, Clover only raises a brow at him, hands in his pockets and a confident smile on his face. 

Not surprising, considering how good he looks. Qrow supposes he shouldn’t have expected to get out of this shindig alive.

“You, uh…” he manages, realizing with no small amount of horror that his cheeks have gone pink. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

It’s not a lie. Clover’s dressed in a deep emerald vest and slacks, jacket either discarded somewhere or abandoned entirely. There’s a small, gold pin at his breast, a four-leaf clover with a thin chain that loops to tuck in at the edge of his vest pocket. The colors bring out the green of his eyes; the white of his button-down does favors for the swell of his arms. He flashes Qrow a crooked grin, charming as ever. “Hey, I try,” he says, as if he doesn’t look sculpted from marble. “You’ve been standing here a while. Everything alright?” 

Now it’s Qrow’s turn to raise a brow. “You keeping an eye on me, Captain Fancy Pants?”

Clover lets out a little huff of laugh, cocking his hip while he gives Qrow an obvious once-over. “You’re hard to miss, Branwen,” he says, voice dipping a few notes lower.

Qrow turns as scarlet as his cape.

Clover notices — the way his grin widens gives him away plainly, but he doesn’t laugh, which Qrow thanks the gods for. “Don’t tell me you came here by yourself,” he says.

Qrow doesn’t know what to make of his inflection. He sounds very aware that Qrow came alone. “My nieces are here,” he defends, a little weakly. 

“Your nieces,” Clover muses, casting his gaze their way for a moment. “Looks like they’re having a good time.”

“Mmm,” Qrow says agreeably. 

“Are you?”

Qrow blinks. “Me?” 

Clover’s eyes nearly twinkle. Handsome bastard. “You.” 

Qrow hunches his shoulders. He’d meant to look like he wasn’t having a good time for the sake of avoiding people, and so he could slip out unnoticed. Seems like neither of those are gonna end up happening. “I’m not really into these kinds of parties,” he admits. “I’m just here ‘cause Jimmy asked.” 

Clover hums, then moves to stand at Qrow’s side, propping one foot against the wall as he leans back on it. He nods off to the right, in James’ direction. Currently, he’s speaking with a short, stocky woman and a tall, thin man, Winter at his side and looking unamused. “If it makes you feel better,” Clover says, “It doesn’t look like the General’s having much fun either.”

Qrow snorts. He doesn’t envy James his job, that’s for damn sure. He turns to say something else, but stops short when he meets Clover’s eyes. The man is already smiling at him, fond and reminiscent of that moment in the back of the transport, playing cards and getting to know each other.

“What is it?” Qrow asks, feeling foolish for no real reason.

“Would you like to dance with me?” Clover asks. 

Qrow’s plastic cup squeaks in his hand. If he’d been drinking from it, he would’ve spit. “I—!” he starts, feels that flush creeping over his neck again. “I don’t really — I’m not really a dancer —”

Clover laughs. “Qrow,” he says, as if Qrow has just said something hilarious, “You’re easily one of the most graceful people I’ve seen in the field. You expect me to believe you’re a bad dancer?”

“I distinctly remember slipping on ice when I was with you,” Qrow grumbles, though he’s loathed to bring it up. Embarrassed at the reminder, he averts his eyes, lifts his punch to drink.

“Qrow,” says Clover, more gentle this time. Qrow pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth, eyes flitting back to Clover’s face before falling to his offered hand. Clover adds, “I’d be honored if you’d accept.”

Qrow lowers his punch, swallowing. It really can’t be overstated how good Clover looks. He always looks good — Qrow’s found himself thinking too frequently about how attractive he is — but now, in this moment, with Clover in that fitted suit…

“I’ll probably trip again,” Qrow says, finishing off his punch and tossing the cup into a nearby bin. 

“I’ll catch you,” Clover promises. Qrow takes his hand and can’t help the little upwards tick of his lips. 

Admittedly, the music is a little boring, even tempo’d and meant to appease the high society folks. The ball won’t turn into a real party till near the end, but that suits Qrow fine. He won’t pretend he knows how to dance to that sort of music either. As it stands, he’s pretty content with the way Clover cups his hand, the way his arm slides around Qrow’s waist, beneath his cloak like their suits are enough fabric between them already. Qrow is about to shake the thought of Clover out of his clothes when the man in question pulls him flush, and his brain takes a steep dive to the gutter. 

“Forward, aren’t you?” Qrow mutters, flushed. 

“Too much?” Clover grins, and grins wider when Qrow doesn’t take a step back, instead electing to place his free hand on Clover’s broad shoulder. “Follow my lead. Left foot first.”

It’s simple enough, just a forward and backward step and in a square, though Clover lengthens their strides as Qrow gets a hang of the rhythm. Soon enough, their motions are sweeping, drawn in the widest circles as could be allowed in a crowd this size. 

“See? Clover murmurs, leaning a little closer. “You’re a natural.”

“You’re flattering me,” Qrow laughs, because this is nothing difficult when wielding a scythe requires more complicated footwork. 

Clover lifts his arm from Qrow’s waist suddenly, just enough to twirl him around before drawing him in close again. “And you’re deflecting again,” he says, not unkindly.

Qrow absently realizes he’s not breathing. Clover’s looking at him in that way of his again, like Qrow is something he wants to run his hands over. With the way his hands smooth across the small of Qrow’s back, maybe that’s not so far-fetched.

“Sorry,” Qrow says, late. The top three buttons of Clover’s shirt are undone, and Qrow is trying very hard not to let his gaze linger there too obviously. 

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Clover says, green eyes flicking up, and Qrow wonders if Clover was looking at his collar, too. That’s a flattering thought. Clover seems to have eyes on him a lot, actually. Qrow can’t say he minds it. 

He swallows. Clover sweeps him in a wide circle again, then slows to a stop as the song fades out. For a moment, Qrow stiffens up a bit; suddenly the concept of going to stand against the wall by himself again seems horrible. The music starts up again, still steady and overly pleasant.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Clover asks, and Qrow must have a funny look on his face, because he tilts his head and adds, “I might even be inclined to ask for seconds.”

“Yeah?” Qrow asks, feeling a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I might be inclined to give them to you.”

“Lucky me,” Clover says softly.

Lucky him indeed, because a second dance turns into a third, and then a fourth, and it isn’t until the music kicks up with heavy bass that Qrow realizes he’s nearly danced the whole ball away in Clover’s arms. They’ve been talking the whole time, learning each other, and Qrow keeps waiting for the fateful moment where Clover admits something terrible about himself, or Clover decides that the whole of his night would be better spent with someone else, but the moment never comes.

What does come is a beep from Clover’s scroll, almost missed over loudening music. “Looks like the General escaped back to his office,” he sighs, tucking the scroll back into his pocket. “I’ve got a mission in the morning. Much as I’d love to stay longer, it’s already late.”

Qrow glances about the dancefloor. This is where the ball’s afterparty starts kicking off, when people with more youthful tendencies get their moment to cut loose. He wonders if he’s getting old, to be thinking like that. 

“Might as well head out too,” he says, humorous, “Since my dance partner’s leaving.”

Clover smiles. It’s dazzling. “Can I walk you back to your room?”

Qrow thinks he hasn’t ever flushed so much, not for a person. He takes Clover’s offered arm, trying not to look too terribly sheepish about it, and Clover tugs him towards the door.

As they go, Qrow catches sight of his nieces, whom he’s a little ashamed to realize he’d forgotten about. The entire group of kids are waving madly at him, excited and grinning. Yang raises her arms above everyone’s heads, a circle formed in one hand before she pokes her index finger through it.

Qrow turns scarlet again. Clover doesn’t mention it this time either, but his mouth turns up in an amused smile. 

“I had a good time with you tonight,” Clover says after a few moments of shy silence. The halls are largely empty, anyone not at the party already tucked away in their dorms. 

Qrow glances up to meet his eyes. It feels like too much very quickly, and he ends up casting his gaze to the floor again right after. He can’t seem to stop smiling. He thinks he hasn’t stopped smiling for hours. “I...had a good time with you too,” he admits.

“I’m glad,” Clover replies, so warmly that there’s no possible way for Qrow to think it untrue. “I think we all needed this, with the work we’ve been doing. A party, I mean.”

Qrow hums in agreement. “Wouldn’t say that’s my top method of relaxing, but…” he glances at Clover again, finds the man already looking at him. “Turned out nice, at least.”

“I think it turned out better than nice,” Clover says, and his voice takes such a note of tenderness that Qrow barely notices they’ve stopped walking. They’ve reached his dorm, and the night’s over. 

He finds he doesn’t want to let go of Clover’s arm, his hand lingering there even as he starts to punch in his access code.

“Qrow?”

Qrow pauses mid-sequence. Red eyes meet green again; his heart leaps up in his throat. “Yeah?”

Clover presses a little closer and waits. When Qrow doesn’t step back, he traces light fingers at Qrow’s hip and presses closer still.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he murmurs.

“What’s stopping you?” Qrow asks, and is terribly relieved when his voice doesn’t break.

Clover looks at him with half-lidded eyes that fall shut as he leans in. For all the nervous fluttering in his stomach, Qrow almost expects it to be a light, chaste sort of thing, but Clover kisses him with a kind of surety, a firmness like he knows what he wants and is confident enough to take it. Qrow tamps down a desire to bite down on full lips, only to feel thrown when Clover’s fingers brush his cheek, when he presses down a little more open-mouthed, a little more insistently, until Qrow’s back hits the door. Qrow inhales sharply, blood singing, skin feeling too hot under his collar and the oppressive cut of his suit jacket.

They part just to breathe. Clover still noses at him, hand sliding from Qrow’s cheek and down his neck until he can brush a thumb over Qrow’s collarbone. The touch runs a shock through Qrow’s body, want bursting hot and heavy in his chest.

“Do you want to come in?” he rasps, hopeful.

Clover nudges their lips together again, just briefly this time. “Yes,” he answers, so openly that Qrow nearly shudders. “But not tonight. I need a few hours of sleep at least, and I want to take my time with you.” 

His voice dips low there, heavy and promising. Desire hits Qrow hard in the gut, like Clover had punched him instead of rubbing idle circles at his hip.

“Damn James,” he mutters, and Clover laughs. 

“You can take your complaints to the General when I’m not around to get in trouble,” Clover teases, though his expression goes a little serious right after. “Qrow. Look at me.”

Qrow looks. And his eyes fall to Clover’s mouth once, his own lips parted, but he looks.

“Later,” Clover says, meaning it, “Ask me again.”

“Okay,” Qrow manages. He feels weak in the knees. He feels like he might just drop to the floor once Clover takes his hands off him.

Clover kisses him again. “One more for luck,” he says playfully. “Goodnight, Mr. Branwen.”

“Goodnight,” Qrow says softly, eyes pinned to Clover’s broad shoulders (and, admittedly, a little lower) after the man leaves him with a cocky smirk and a wink. Once he’s gone, Qrow reaches up to touch his bottom lip like he might find proof that those kisses and the hunger in them were real, like he could savor them if he was careful enough. 

How odd, Qrow thinks, to feel utterly lucky for once.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read Part 2 here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296694)


End file.
